A moment later, Helen had
returned; she was walking slowly now, and carefully, her hand on the
back of a thin boy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He couldn’t have been
older than twelve, and Clary recognized him immediately. Helen, her hand
firmly clamped around the wrist of a younger boy whose hands were
covered with blue wax. He must have been playing with the tapers in the
huge candelabras that decorated the sides of the nave. He looked about
twelve, with an impish grin and the same wavy, bitter-chocolate hair as
his sister.Jules, Helen had called him. Her little brother.The impish grin was gone now. He looked
tired and dirty and frightened. Skinny wrists stuck out of the cuffs of a
white mourning jacket whose sleeves were too long for him. In his arms
he was carrying a little boy, probably not more than two years old, with
the same wavy brown hair that he had; it seemed to be a family trait.
The rest of his family wore the same borrowed mourning clothes:
following Julian was a brunette girl about ten, her hand firmly clasped
in the hold of a boy the same age: the boy had a sheet of tangled black
hair that nearly obscured his face. Fraternal twins, Clary guessed.
After them came a girl who might have been eight or nine, her face round
and very pale between brown braids.The misery on their faces cut at Clary’s
heart. She thought of her power with runes, wishing that she could
create one that would soften the blow of loss. Mourning runes existed,
but only to honor the dead, in the same way that love runes existed,
like wedding rings, to symbolize the bond of love. You couldn’t make
someone love you with a rune, and you couldn’t assuage grief with it,
either. So much magic, Clary thought, and nothing to mend a broken
heart.“Julian Blackthorn,” said Jia Penhallow, and her voice was gentle. “Step forward, please.”Julian swallowed and handed the little
boy he was holding over to his sister. He stepped forward, his eyes
darting around the room. He was clearly scouring the crowd for someone.
His shoulders had just begun to slump when another figure darted out
onto the stage. A girl, also about twelve, with a tangle of blond hair
that hung down around her shoulders: she wore jeans and a t-shirt that
didn’t quite fit, and her head was down, as if she couldn’t bear so many
people looking at her. It was clear that she didn’t want to be there —
on the stage or perhaps even in Idris — but the moment he saw her,
Julian seemed to relax. The terrified look vanished from his expression
as she moved to stand next to him, her face ducked down and away from
the crowd.“Julian,” said Jia, in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?”

His eyes shone when he looked at her, green as spring grass.He has always had green eyes, said the voice in her head. People
often marvel at how much alike you are, he and your mother and
yourself. His name is Jonathan and he is your brother; he has always
protected you. Somewhere in the back of Clary’s mind she saw black eyes and whip marks, but she didn’t know why. He’s your brother. He’s your brother, and he’s always taken care of you.

“Okayyyyy,” Isabelle said in a low voice, “When did Brother Zachariah get hot?”

Isabelle tugged her tank top back down and glared at her brother. “You don’t knock now?” “It’s my bedroom!” Alec spluttered.